Work Wife: Distance (WORK WIFE #2)

Chapter 1

Gabrielle's POV

For the next several weeks, Lincoln pulls away. He’s cordial with me, but it’s almost like he’s distancing himself, keeping a stone face around me.

I cook for him, and I actually move in with him. Funny enough, we’ve been able to keep our boundaries.

Lincoln looks as though he’s gotten it out of his system. Most of the time he doesn’t come home until super late.

Even though I’m living here rent free, I’m still getting paid by him, which is very generous, something I have to keep reminding myself that he owes me after all the pain he put me through.

But somehow it still feels horrible.

Every time he’s home late.

Every time I know he’s out with Sarah.

When he comes home and greets me with a cold “Good evening” only for him to retreat to his room or exist on the other side of the house without acknowledging me.

I’ve even tried just to mess with him a little bit, walking around in my towel, wearing very short shorts, stuff that I knew he liked when we were married.

Aside from me catching him staring on occasion, that’s all that happens. He looks away or just straight up ignores me.

I’m not gonna even lie. I know a huge part of it is my ego and me just wanting him to validate me because honestly, I loved him and I think a part of me still does obviously or else I wouldn’t care.

Maybe it’s to get back at him as well, but the thing is in trying to punish him I’m punishing myself.

I really need to save my money, get what I can out of him, and get the hell out of here.

Because I think what hurts worse than us hooking up and it going nowhere is me somehow back in the same position I was when I was married, taking care of things at home while he’s out there going from work into the bed of someone else.

Morris meows at me.

He’s so sweet. “Hey Morris,” I tell him, kissing the top of his head. Time to do a little cleaning, and so I do exactly that, just something to pass the time.

I also search for houses because it’s my dream. I want to be able to buy a house. If I’m going through all of this with Lincoln and come out the other end better than before, it would have all been worth it, or maybe that’s just what I tell myself.

The door clicks.

Weird. What time is it? Looking at my phone, the time says 7:15 p.m. That’s early for him. I peek out to the front door and notice Lincoln coming in.

He looks tired or maybe pissed or something. I don’t know. I don’t have to do this, but I start to warm up his food anyway.

“Hey,” I call out. His eyes find mine.

“I made a little bit of food,” I say. “You feel like eating now? You’re kind of home early.” At first he says nothing.

Is he going to answer me?

“No I’m good,” he says quietly, before heading to his room and closing the door. Ordinarily I would ask him if everything’s okay, but I don’t want to pry. We’re not married anymore, but why do I still care so damn much? I hate myself for this.

Knocking on his door, I wait for an answer. There’s none.

“Lincoln,” I call out. Still no answer.

Hmm.

Maybe he really wants to be left alone, but it’s not like him to come in and not greet Morris. Whatever. Let him have his alone time. Is he really still that mad at me? Don’t know why he would be.

Imagine being the person who hurt someone else and you’re mad at them because, checkmate, they don’t want to get back with you because they don’t trust you and you’ve essentially ruined their life and wasted their damn time.

The hours tick by, and I get ready for bed. Lincoln had set up the guest room for me, so this is where I’m sleeping now, and funny enough Morris is supposed to be his cat, but Morris has been sleeping with me most nights, so there is that.

I can’t sleep though, because my mind keeps thinking about Lincoln, so out of bed I get to see that his room door is still shut.

What, is he jerking off in there or something?

That would be so hilarious if I opened the door and found him doing that.

What would I do if I did? My curiosity is killing me.

I shouldn’t be curious, but this man was my husband, so why am I feeling guilty about it? Turning the knob, the door swings open, and I peer inside.

“Lincoln?”

He’s fast asleep on his bed.

The room is dark. As a matter of fact everything is dark now. “Lincoln?” I call out again.

Nothing. Weird.

Going to the bed, he still has all his clothes on.

His shoes are on. He’s on his tummy, lying down on the left side of his face, his arms at his sides.

He’s breathing through his mouth, snoring lightly. He’s so handsome. God damn it, I hate this.

For some reason my man, sorry, my ex-man, looks more handsome now than he did even when we were married.

Maybe it’s because I know I’m supposed to stay off-limits with him, but I can’t just leave him like this.

It feels wrong, and I don’t like people lying down on the bed with shoes, even though his shoes aren’t making contact with the bed.

He’s still in the bed with shoes on, and I know that’s not comfortable. So I kneel and unlace his boots, taking them off. I expect him to groan sleepily, but he remains conked out. I place them to the side neatly by the wall in his bedroom.

I then peel off his socks. When I see the bottom of his feet, I gasp. He has blisters.

What the hell?

Poor Lincoln. He hasn’t had blisters on his feet for a long time, but then again who am I kidding?

I haven’t been around him in a couple of years, so this might be something that he lived with.

But I made sure he had the right shoes so he could be on his feet all day and not get blisters.

Where are the shoes I bought him long ago?

He probably ran them into the ground, pun intended, and then never replaced them, because Lincoln is the kind of guy who doesn’t shop for himself.

He’ll get something that he thinks is efficient and should work, and he’ll be uncomfortable and not get himself proper shoes. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s like he likes the pain or something.

I don’t want to rouse him from sleep, so I just put a cool rag, not too cold, on each of his feet. The blisters, some of them already popped. This must be painful.

That’s why his socks were sticky. It was from the liquid and some of the blood. He’s exhausted.

Just my nurturing nature about me. I’ve got to be thorough. Maybe there’s a way I can get off his overcoat.

Even though he’s lying down on his stomach, his arms are in such a way that I can’t move it without waking him up. I try to peel the collar back to see if I can get a good grip on the coat, and then I feel his neck. He’s been asleep for a few hours, but he’s very hot.

Maybe it’s because he’s wearing this coat. Now I’m legitimately worried about him.

“Lincoln?” Lincoln, wake up.”

He’s not waking up, and he must be super exhausted.

Morris meows, looking up at the bed.

“Just a minute, Morris, hold on, baby,” I tell the cat. “Lincoln, wake up,” I say over and over again. “We got to get this coat off you.”

No response.

“Lincoln?”

Lincoln won’t wake up.